Monsters and Bones
by Callophilia
Summary: There is a monster under Sherlock's bed and a skeleton in his closet.


A/N This is for **lebeauxderdaben** on tumblr for the johnlockchallenges gift swap. The prompt was 'monster under the bed' with angst/hurt/comfort on the side and this is what my brain replied with. I hope you like it!

There is a monster under his bed and a skeleton in his closet.

Sherlock can hear their sharp nails against the wooden floor of his bedroom, can smell the rotting stench of their hanging flesh and see the maggots crawling out of the shadows, away from their hatching ground.

His head hurts. The pressure of their presence is a rock on his head

_rock-rock'n'roll-roll-movement-leaving-far away-not here-not there-anywhere but there!_

The monster under the bed laughs a familiar laugh that sends chills down to his core, the skeleton leans closer to the door to hear more secrets to keep warm with.

"_Holmes, Sherlock. Patient has high cocaine dependency. Withdrawal stages still not passed, symptoms of hallucinations and paranoia are most severe at present."_ The clinical voice finishes with a gurgling laugh, in his minds eye Sherlock can see the blood passing over lips turning pale blue with each breath of air. The skeleton shifts, its empty sockets peering into the dark bedroom. Sherlock could almost feel its glee, but you can't feel someone else's emotions when they don't have features other than creamy bone and yellowed teeth.

There is a bump underneath the bed, the monster moves, it sounds wet, each movement sends a resounding slapping sound around the room. The monster speaks again in a different voice. Mycrofts voice.

"_You will stay here Sherlock, I promise you that. No more sneaking out and stealing money to buy more." _A rattling breath sounds just at the edge of the bed. Sherlock tries to struggle away, sweat soaked sheets cling to his bare flesh and hold him back. _"I am sorry for this Sherlock, it's for the best."_

The white walls drove him mad. That cell. That room. Safe. Unsafe. Locked in there for what felt like months, it was only weeks. No contact with humans. Only the monster under the bed spoke. That was a long time ago. Why speak now? The empty needle on the bedside table didn't answer his question. It never has.

Sherlock moans and rolls over, trying to find his mind palace amongst the rubble that has been left behind.

A door.

Barred and locked behind piles of stone.

It's for the best.

He looks to the end of the bed and stills at the sight of his open closet. The skeleton stands beside him now. Its thin ivory bones are dusted with white grit, the stuff is pouring out of its empty sockets onto his hand that is so close to his mobile phone.

So close yet so far.

_Far-Far away-Afghanistan or Iraqi-Afghanistan-War-Soldier-John._

Sherlocks bloodshot eyes slide over the towering skeleton.

Male. Six foot four. Approximately thirty five to forty years old. Suffered a broken arm in early adulthood, injury healed.

He had thrashed against being bound to the bed at first. His anger and height coupled together had taken down two orderlies. He had bucked like a stubborn mule, trying to get them off him, he didn't have to stay in that place. Mycroft could fuck off. He had lurched forward and fell off the table awkwardly onto his arm, the snapping sound silenced the orderlies and they scrambled to right him. Too late. Damage done. Sherlock drifted off after that, the sedative that had been administered to his backside worked quickly, not quick enough.

Yes.

He was his own dark secret. His shame huddled in the back of the closet. Fool he was, he had unleashed it and given the monster a voice.

The powder is heavy on his hand. His fingers brush the edge of his phone, pushing it away.

A strangled cry escapes his lips, followed by a dry sob.

The skeleton backs away and stands in the light of the moon coming through the window, a ghastly silhouette, the light curtains flapping in the wind look like wings.

An Angel of Death?

Yes.

His fingers grasp the phone, the effort exhausts him. He presses the message button.

**J**

The bed moves. Sherlock groans and looks down to see a slick, clawed hand grasping the mattress. Black blood seeps through its pores and onto the sheets spreading fast. It reeks. The metallic smell of blood and old corpse and shit and vomit and rot. Sherlock dry heaves. He hasn't eaten. There is nothing to vomit.

**O**

Another hand joins the first. The stench has intensified and Sherlock stops breathing for a moment of relief. There is none.

**H**

He can hear the mass sliding out from under the bed and the skeleton stands statue still, only its wings flap silently in the air. A head emerges and Sherlock can't take his eyes away as it rises onto the bed. Its skin is green and broken, black blood oozes from the gaps obscuring any view of raw muscle tissue underneath. It is not unlike a drowned body; bloated limbs, repulsive and stiff. Its cheeks are puffed and its yellowed eyes are protruding and it only gets closer to Sherlock.

"_She's dying, you... Machine!" _It shouts out in Johns voice. Sherlock closes his eyes and wishes it away.

He knows this is a mistake.

He can feel its putrid breath on his face.

**N**

He can't bring himself to open his eyes.

He has to.

He slowly opens his eyes, his lids feel so heavy. It's nose to nose with him now, its eyes are orbs that stare endlessly at Sherlock. It seems excited.

**Send**

"_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." _Its breath is rancid and its words are empty.

The monster from under the bed crawls forward further and settles onto Sherlock's chest. His lungs feel crushed under its immense weight and he struggles to breathe. Its purple tongue slides out from swollen lips and licks a line across Sherlock's cheek.

The bedroom door opens and the darkness is driven away by the shaft of light coming from the hallway light.

"You wanted something?" John's already exasperated.

The monster on Sherlock's chest backs away from the light and Sherlock can breathe again. He gulps in the stagnant air.

"Sherlock, are you all right?" John steps in hesitantly and looks at Sherlock. He is prone on the bed in sweat soaked sheets that only cross over his stomach in a thin line.

Sherlock's nudity is a side note on the list of things that John sees and catalogues.

Sherlock is sweating profusely, his respiration rate is high but the depth of breath is shallow. His lips, fingers, and toes are slightly blue. There is an empty hypodermic needle on the bedside table.

Sherlock watches the monster crawl backwards, the black blood recedes as if being sucked up by a straw.

"Jesus, Sherlock! I thought you'd got rid of that!" Johns fingers press against Sherlock's slick throat. A moment passes and now all Sherlock can see of the monster is its eyes peering over the bed.

"I'll be right back, you're going to be fine."

He leaves the room and the monster rises a little, its mouth curling up into a smile.

It chuckles again, the sound is rattling in its chest with phlegm and blood. Sherlock stares back wide eyed. _"Alone."_

It lowers again, almost cowering, as John comes back in with a glass of greyish liquid and fresh sheets. He gently pulls off the soaked stop sheet and spreads the new one over Sherlock. "Do you feel cold or hot?"

"Hot." Sherlock replies, his voice quiet and dry.

"Well you're freezing cold. I need to change the bottom sheet. I can do that while you're on the bed if I roll you over, is that ok?"

Sherlock nods and steals a glance at the monster as he hears it move. It's under the bed again, he can feel it bumping against the underneath as it squirms. The skeleton is still watching, its wings swaying gently.

John goes through the motions of changing the sheets of a bed bound patient, Sherlock is subdued and compliant as he rolls over and John can swear he seems like a scared child.

"Here, drink this. It's dioralyte. I know it tastes awful but you need to drink it all or you'll get dehydrated."

Sherlock takes it without a comment and takes a sip, not wincing at the sea water taste or pointing out that he knows he'll be dehydrated and that he's not an idiot. John doesn't know how long ago he injected but a glance at Sherlock's iris shows he's still under the effects of the drug, if only slightly. He's not sure if he should stay or go, Sherlock looks a little better and he doesn't want to hover. The colouring has returned to Sherlock's lips and fingers and his breathing has evened out. John gets up to leave him in peace. Just as he's about to leave the room, Sherlock speaks.

"I was addicted as a teenager." John stops in the doorway and turns, quite surprised at this omission. "Mycroft put me into rehab a few times. I'd always find my way out and onto the street in no time. Except for the last time. The last time... they locked me in a room. Mycroft gave them permission, encouraged it even. Cold turkey. It felt like forever. I lost my voice from screaming and ranting. I must have been a nightmare. I never could completely shake the habit though." He feels ashamed of his secret habit, his need for alleviation from the pressure against his under-stimulated mind. His weakness. "I'm sorry."

John looks at the open window with its lightly blowing curtains. He crosses over and walks toward the skeleton, its skull silently turns toward John and follows as he approaches.

John walks in front of it, obscuring it from Sherlock's view and a moment of panic grips his heart.

And then it is gone.

John is at the window pulling it shut with a sigh.

"I've always known, Sherlock." He kneels next the the bed and Sherlock can hear the monster shuffle slightly. "It's your choice what you do. I won't force you into anything you don't want. I'll be here for you to help when you want help and even when you don't want it but need it anyway." John smiles and takes Sherlock's cold limp hand into his own warm ones. "I'll be downstairs if you need me. Try to get some sleep."

John stands to leave but Sherlock's grasps his hand tightly. He looks back at Sherlock and watches him struggle and weigh his words before he speaks them.

"Don't leave me alone. Please."

John wonders for a moment how haunted Sherlock is by his secrets and shame that he would be lonely and frightened. He makes a mental note to ruin Mycrofts next trip to the diogynes club for doing the dumbest and shittiest thing to Sherlock while he was at his most vulnerable.

But, for tonight, he will do what no one else had done for Sherlock in his troubled youth.

He kicks off his shoes, motions with his hand for Sherlock to roll onto his side and lays down behind him, cocooning his cold body and warming him.

Keeps him safe.

Protects him.


End file.
